Medea and Jason
by Heather Young
Summary: The quest for the Golden Fleece from Medea's point of view after it's all over.
1. First Sight

Rating: PG-13 for content in later chapters.

Summery: The story of Jason's quest for the Golden Fleece from Medea's point of view (remember, the witch who helped him?) She's telling this after everything is all over, and it's a kind of stream of consciousness looking back at what happened to make her end up where she is. This chapter, she meets him for the first time.

Disclaimer: I do not own any myths, Greek or otherwise. I do not own Jason, I do not own Medea, but I do Theokleia.

------- Chapter One -------

I am vilely betrayed. _He_ has betrayed me. _He,_ whom I saved. _He, _whom I loved. Whom I still love, despite all that has come to pass. _He_ has betrayed me.

I saw _him_ first. When they came in, all I could see was him. _He_ filled my eyes, I could not keep them off him.

My maid, Theokleia, claimed later that as the Greeks came in, she saw a little boy with a cherub's face and an archer's tools slip out past them. Eros. The son of the Goddess of love. Maybe it was so – Theokleia is always claiming to see the Gods or their creatures, but this time, it might be so. Why else would _he_ have affected me so? How else could I have brought myself to do the things I have done? And the men who saw their coming say that there was nothing but a cloud of mist until it reached the city gates, where it suddenly dissolved into this group of men, so the hand of at least one of the Gods is at work in all this. Ah well, I shall never know for certain, and the cause is not what matters now.

They came piling into our main hall, bold heroes all, but not a one of them could match _him_. I remember so clearly how he looked when he first came in – golden curls flying as he turned to laugh at a joke one of his friends had made, white teeth shining as he laughed, blue eyes sparkling in merriment as he turned back again. And saw me. I still remember that first thrill that ran through my body as he looked at me, remember because I still feel that way. It makes me feel alive, just to know that _he_ is looking at me, and it is but a pale imitation of life when he looks away.

They wanted, or rather _he_ wanted; for it was his idea, he was the Captain, the rest were just his crew, however much of a name they had for themselves; _he_ wanted the Golden Fleece that had been given to my father by Phrixus in gratitude for taking him in and giving him my sister's hand in marriage.

My father did not wish to do this thing. He gave _him_ an impossible task, one that would surely kill him. My father told the Greeks that he would give them the Fleece only if one of them yoked his fire-breathing bulls to plow his fields, then sowed those fields with the teeth of a dragon, which would cause an army to grow from the ground, which that one would then have to defeat. My father lied and said it was only what he had done himself. My father looked right at _him_ the whole time he spoke, and it was obvious who he wanted to do this. After all, _he_ was the only one with any legitimate claim to the Fleece as he was a relation to Phrixus, and if _he_ failed the others would go home in defeat with him.

_He_ said he would do it. Right away, without a pause for thought, he agreed. I almost died in that moment, for he surely would die the next day. No one could come near those two bulls without being cremated. They had to be kept in a stable made of stone, built expressly for them, so that they did not burn down their walls and run away.

When I went to my room that night, I wept for hours. I did not want _him_ to die, although I had only seem him briefly, and I knew he had no idea of who I was, I still could not bear the thought of a world without _him_ in it. I even took out my dagger, and thought of using on myself, so that I could bear him company on the journey to Hades. Theokleia saw, and took it away, along with anything else sharp enough to stab me or strong enough to hang me.

Yes, I thought of killing myself for _him_, then nothing more than a stranger who had wandered across my path. But I did not. Sometimes I wish now that I had, then I would not have to come to know this agony.

For _he_ has betrayed me, betrayed me most deeply and foully. I gave him everything, and yet he cast me aside when I suited his purpose no longer.

Yet I love _him_ still. If I did not, perhaps I would not hurt so much now. Perhaps I would not care. But I do, and _he_ shall know what it is to be in my place, that so-called "great hero" shall know what it is to fear, to be scorned by one whom you thought cared for you. I shall have my revenge, and then _he_ shall know what it is to be betrayed.

------- ------- -------

A.N: Okay, two style points: yes, I know it's not perfect grammar but I'm trying to get the sense that this is something she's thinking, and people rarely form their thoughts in completely perfect grammar. Secondly, the whole thing italicisation of some "he"s and not others thing. Wherever "he" or "him" is italicised is where you'd normally put "Jason" and where they aren't is where you'd normally just have the pronoun anyway.

The name "Theokleia" is an ancient Greek name meaning "Glory of God", which I figured was appropriate for someone who sees the Gods. The modern version of this name is "Thekla".

So far, I haven't deviated from the myth, and I do not intend to do so, but if I do, I will mention it. For those who don't know, Jason's relationship to Phrixus is that they're cousins. The reason Jason wants the fleece is because another cousin of his named Pelias has usurped the kingdom that belongs to Jason, but has promised to give it back if Jason brings back the Golden Fleece (believing that there's no way Jason will come back from this quest alive).


	2. First Meeting

Rating: PG-13 for content in later chapters.

Summery: The story of Jason's quest for the Golden Fleece from Medea's point of view. She's telling this after everything is all over, and it's a kind of stream of consciousness looking back at what happened to make her end up where she is. This chapter, she helps him for the first time.

Disclaimer: I do not own any myths, Greek or otherwise. I do not own Jason, I do not own Medea, but I do Theokleia.

-------Chapter 2-------

The nights. They are the worst when you are alone, they drag by so slowly, each second an eon in and of itself. The days are easy, you can busy yourself so that you are unable to think. But the nights. The nights when you can do nothing but lie there and think, longing for sleep but unable to sleep for the thoughts that keeping dancing around your head, mocking you with your inability to muffle them, giving you no rest awake then haunting your dreams asleep. Yes, the nights are the worst when you are alone. My nights to come will be bad, now that _he_ has betrayed me, and left me alone.

I dread the night.

That first night, it is burned into my memory forever. That was the night I learned how hateful nights can be.

I was awake in my room for hours, struggling with my conscience, trying to convince myself not to love _him_.

I made the mistake of thinking the word "love". Once you let open **that** floodgate, those waters can never be recalled, they cascade through your life and create as much havoc with it as a true flood would, they drown all other feelings. Even if you manage to close the gates, the water is still there; dormant, slowly turning into swamp, but there; and it has still drowned everything else. It just turns ugly. It starts to stink. I thought that word, that small fatal word, and there was nothing more I could do.

If I had just managed to keep my thoughts still, I might have saved myself a world of pain. But I had admitted that I loved, and so I hurt. I wanted to die, to end this agony of hurting for _him_, for what he would be feeling on the morrow; this agony of conflict between my duty to my father, the King, who wanted this band of thieves gone, and my love for _him_, a perfect stranger, whom I nonetheless fiercely desired. But I could not die, Theokeia had made sure of that by removing all objects of temptation.

It might have been better if I had died that night.

In the early hours of the morning, not that long before Dawn begins to spread her cloak over the sky, Theokleia came in to see if I was still awake. I was. She was annoyed.

"By the God's!" she snapped. "If you care that much about what happens to this Greek stranger, go and help him! Do you have magic or don't you?!"

Ah, Theokleia, you only meant to help me then. You always cared for me. I doubt you would have said what you did if you had known where your advice would lead me. But you _did_ say it and I listened.

Without pause for thought, I snatched my herb packets and the tools of my craft and went to find _him_. I was determined to help him, whatever the cost to me. I should have looked closer at the price.

I had not gone far before I ran into _him_.

One of my nephews, Phrixus' son, had felt ashamed that his grandfather would lie so vilely to guests, committing what was tantamount to murder and thereby dishonouring the whole house. And _he_ had been kind to this same boy earlier in the day, so that my nephew felt indebted to him. Therefore, this nephew went to the foreigner's encampment and told _him_ about me, about my magic. He advised _him_ to seek me out and win me over to my cause. _His_ followers, who had been trying to stop him from acquiescing to my father's demands, found this sound advice and urged him to follow it, which he agreed to do.

So I found _him_ looking for me, not far from my apartments, as I went in search of him. His thought: to beg the favour from me that I was about to beg him to accept.

And so it started. A man desperate for his kingdom, his honour, and his life (in no particular order); a girl made desperate for said man; a meeting in the middle of the night; an agreement. A fatal agreement.

I gave him an ointment I had, which, when rubbed all over a person's body, would render him invulnerable for a day. He thanked me graciously.

When he took the box from me, our hands met.

I could not help looking up into his eyes. I found him looking back into mine. Those eyes seemed to contain all the world, all the mysteries that make up life. I could have lost myself in them forever, and been happy there.

But there was more to tell. Eventually I made myself speak, explain how to defeat the army of dragon men he would sow the next day. He solemnly promised to head my words. Then he turned to leave.

The thought of him going through me into a panic, and I spoke without thinking.

"When you go back home, remember me. Remember Medea, as I will remember you forever. When you go home I will sit here longing for you, but the thought that you will remember me will bring comfort."

_He_ turned around again, his bright smile gentle. "It will be impossible for me to forget you. Should you come to Greece, you shall be worshipped for what you have done for us. Come with me, Medea. Come with me, and only death shall part us." Then he came close, oh so close!, and whispered to me, "I believe I love you."

I was so happy then. I believed he meant it.

Well, maybe he did mean it, then. Maybe he did. But does love betray that which it loves? Without even just cause?

_He_ did. If he even loves me, if he even ever loved me. Well. You said death shall part us, and it has. The death of your love, the death of your common decency, the death of that honour you cared so much for: that is what has parted us.

You forget. I am a witch. You think me your kept sorceress, but sorceresses have teeth, and if you give us cause, we shall bite. You have given me cause, and my bite is poisoned. I shall teach you what it is to fear the night.

------- ------- -------

A.N: Same grammar/style points as before.

In the myth, the whole nephew thing was a lot longer with a lot more of the unnamed nephew running back and forth between Jason and Medea and setting things up between them. Also, it's pure speculation that he is Phrixus' son, because the myth doesn't tell us that. It was way too drawn out for the way I'm writing this (as this style already draws things out really long), so I shortened it up a bit. Other than that, it follows the myth.

Next chapter, Jason does heroic things with bulls and dragon's teeth.


	3. Jason's Task

Rating: PG-13 for a lot of inhuman warrior being killed and some cynical commentary.

Summery: The story of Jason's quest for the Golden Fleece from Medea's point of view. She's telling this after everything is all over, and it's a kind of stream of consciousness looking back at what happened to make her end up where she is. This chapter, Jason preforms his tasks.

Disclaimer: I do not own any myths, Greek or otherwise. I do not own Jason, I do not own Medea, I do not own the task.

**Chapter 3**

_His_ name, it means "healer". Strange, ironic, is it not? Named healer, indeed, trained to heal by he that named you, and yet you do not heal but destroy. All heroes destroy, it is what makes you a hero: you go out and destroy your enemies and then everyone else sits around making noises about how wonderfully brave and heroic and great you all are. But you are not. For me, it has always been those who created who were the ones truly worthy of admiration. It is so much harder to create than it is to destroy. Why did I not watch out, when I met you? I knew you and your men were all heroes, destructive killing heroes, you all strutted it out plain for all to see and admire at. Yet I still cared for you. And you destroyed my life, little by little, starting long before you destroyed our love. You started destroying me that very first morning.

That morning everyone went out to watch _him_, to see what would happen. I overheard some of the slaves making bets with one another about how long he would last and laughing about it. If they had been mine, they would have been dead for laughing at the thought of _his_ death.

(And now _he_ laughs at the thought of mine. He must, for he killed me.)

I was glad, that day, for the etiquette that kept me separate from my father, the King, that forced me to keep my features an uninterested mask. For otherwise, I fear my father would have read my feelings for _him_, and know that I had helped him, and would have thought up some excuse to dely and force _him_ to preform the impossible tasks unaided, forcing him to fail.

Father, you have no honour. That is all that separates you from the heroes; for you, too, destroy when you deem you are given cause, but **you** have no honour, and they guard their's more jealously than their wives' honour, more jealously than their lives, more jealously even than whatever "heroic" cause they are destroying for.

_He_ opened the doors on the bulls stone stable, and great bouts of flame came billowing out. Several of our people, poised to cheer his incineration, stopped and stared in shock. He was perfectly unharmed. His men stopped chewing their nails, and started to relax a bit now they'd had proof the magic I'd given their leader worked.

I didn't stop worrying. _I_ knew that what I'd given him would work, but love doubts even perfect certainties.

_He_ entered the stable, and all was quiet for several long moments except for the sounds of the two bulls. A few men, sure the bulls had overcome him, were tentatively approaching the doors in order to shut them again, when _he_ came out with the bulls firmly yoked. The entire gathering, even those securely at the very rear, took several steps backward to ensure safety from the fire those animals breathed.

_He_ merely smiled at the fear in the faces of those who watched him, and calmly led the yoked pair to the field where he was to sow the dragon's teeth. To this day, I am not sure if that smile was mere bravado, or if it was genuine amusement at the discomfiture of those who would have cheerfully seen him dead. Either way, that smile should have warned me, but the heart is blind to all the wrong things. We trust where we should be wary, and suspect the snow white innocent.

_He_ started plowing the teeth into the field. The crowds grew still as they saw that he not only could withstand the bulls, but could in fact force them to his bidding. It was not easy, even for him, but he did make them do as he pleased. Of course, all the stories now say ridiculous things, say that at his touch the bulls became as biddable as dogs, as docile as lambs, that the flames stopped and they breathed sweet perfume, and other such nonsense. Even those who were they now half believe such stories. They are utter drivel, but anyone who knew anything about those bulls know that just getting them to plow in the same direction, let alone the direction you wanted, was remarkable enough.

_He_ finished plowing, and planted himself at the edge of the field, tossing a stone in one hand, ready to harvest the crop he had just sown. _He_ and the watching crowd did not have long to wait. Mere seconds after the last of the teeth had been plowed in, the ground above where the first had been planted began to tremble, and soon the first of the fierce warriors that inevitably spring from dragon's teeth were pulling them selves free of the soil, and advancing on their planter. Here again, the tales that were left after the deed was done exaggerate ridiculously. They say now that giant's sprang up, twenty feet tall at least, all armoured with the impenetrable hide of dragon scale, and armed with every weapon the teller could imagine. Rubbish. They were of the same height as an ordinary tall man, armed and armoured no differently than any of our warriors would be, save that these wore the colours of the dragon, and not of our royal house of Crete. But it _is_ true that they advanced with a single mindedness and inexorableness not to be found in any true human, and that made them fearsome enough, to my mind. As each row advanced, the ground they marched over trembled, and their brothers heaved themselves up from the earth to fall into the march behind them. _He_, not wishing to leave anything to chance, waited until the very last of them had pulled himself free of the ground, and all the while the crowd marvelled at his collectedness, that he could just stand there calmly tossing his stone up and down, while these unnatural people advanced on him. As soon as the last of the dragon warriors was solidly on land, _he_ took careful aim and threw the selfsame stone he had just been so casually playing with right into the middle of their army, as I had told him he should. Confused, they turned upon one another, and unthinkingly butchered themselves down to the last man, while _he_ just stood by and watched, not having to lift a finger. I think he might even have laughed a little at the slaughter, but I am not sure, blind as I was to such signs then, although I never took my eyes off him for an instant.

So _he_ won the test the King had set him, and my father was forced to hand over the fleece to these heros, much against his will.

I saw what my father was planning for you. I saw, so I betrayed my father for you, for my love for you, and thus my destruction started. I should have seen then, where this sad story would lead us, for what begins in blood must end in blood. That is the only language such _heros_ such as yourself understand, the language of blood and destruction. So, tonight I will free myself of you by completing my destruction and starting yours. I made the mistake of trying to speak to you in my language, the language of love. Tonight I shall correct that mistake and speak to you in yours. Then we shall see.

* * *

A.N.: Ouch, really long wait for an update on this, I'm really sorry. On the other hand, not very many people read this and I had a lot of work to do for my University classes, so I don't feel _too_ guilty.

Same grammar/style remarks.

This follow the myth pretty exactly, except that Jason had a whole show yoking the bulls in front of the crowd, but I don't know enough about that to be able to write about it accurately, so I cheated a bit.

Next chapter, Medea runs away with Jason and the Argonauts.


	4. Elopement

Rating: PG-13 for a fratricide.

Summery: The story of Jason's quest for the Golden Fleece from Medea's point of view. She's telling this after everything is all over, and it's a kind of stream of consciousness looking back at what happened to make her end up where she is. This chapter, Medea elopes with Jason.

Disclaimer: I do not own any myths, Greek or otherwise. I do not own Jason, I do not own Medea.

-------Chapter 4-------

Of course, my father did not _just_ hand over the fleece, just like that. Oh no.

Of course, to be fair, he could not have handed it over right there and then, even if he wanted to, as it was some ways distant, in the safe keeping of a serpent he had placed over it. But he did _not_ want to. And having seen _his_ triumph over first the bulls and then the dragon warriors my father did not wish to leave anything to chance either, would not risk _his_ triumphing over the serpent and thereby claiming the fleece without a shadow of a doubt. Oh no.

I could have guessed what was in your mind, Father – would have easily guessed, and acted the exact same as I did in any case, not being one to leave things to chance myself. So I suppose it does not greatly matter that I overheard something of what you said on the way back from the fields to the palace, your quiet commands to your personal guard to make sure that not one man from _his_ ship would ever see another morning. I would have done the same in any case. It was already too late to turn back.

So. Hearing my father's plans for you and those who looked to you, I betrayed him a second time. Chose a just-met stranger over my own kin, my own father to whom I owed all obedience.

Obedience was never something I was good at.

So I packed. I packed and fled, leaving the palace for the last time, leaving my home for the first time. I fled to the docks, to where _he_ was staying on his ship, celebrating with his crew over the victory I had obtained for him, believing they had won. I came to warn _him_ that he had not.

I threw myself down in front of _him_, not caring what the men thought; neither heeding nor hearing the taunts, the jibes they threw at me, the jokes they made to each other over my back. What they thought was not important, they were not important. Only _he_ was, only _his_ safety.

I told him my father's plot. I begged him to flee. Told him where the fleece was, how it was guarded. Begged him to take me with him at least as far as the serpent, promised I could tame it for him. Begged them to leave _now_, the morning would be too late. Begged with tears in my eyes. Promised I'd do anything for him, help however I could. Promised wildly he could throw me off the ship after he had the fleece if he just let me help him get it.

Betrayed my family.

_He_ stood and listened to all I said, my wild ramblings, until I could say no more, choked on emotion. Then he lifted me to my feet and embraced me. Promised me that once we - _we!_ - were in Greece he would marry me. Promised me in front of witnesses.

Betrayed me.

In that moment, that promise of love consummated, I was the happiest being alive. If I had died, right then, I would have gone to Hades happy, content in my belief of his love.

It would have been better so.

The crew had grown silent during my ravings, listening to the truth of their danger that came through despite my incoherence. When _he_ raised me and promised me marriage they knew what they had to do, and without a single word being spoken the ship was readied and we set out, silent except for the dip of oars in the water and the occasional soft creak of wood.

The men kept their silence the entire journey to where the serpent lived with it's treasure. I do not know how long it took – time does strange things when you're terrified for your life and that of your love's. They would never have even found the place if not for me. The tributary that leads to where my father's serpent once kept watch is well-hidden, and hard to find even in daylight. But I lead them right to the fleece and its guardian – compounding my betrayal of my father, by a second greater one.

After all, I could have just warned _him_ of my father's intentions, told him to flee. No one would have lost: _he_ and his men would still have their lives, my father would still have their fleece. But then I stole for him what my father did not want him to steal above all things, the greatest treasure of our house.

I sang the serpent to sleep for them. It was a secret tune, one supposedly only my father and my eldest brother knew so that the owner and the heir of the fleece would be able to reach it if need be. (Most often, the need was simply a possessor's greedy need to look at their prized possession.) But I knew the song, and neither father nor brother knew I'd been in a corner, listening and learning, the day the former taught it to the latter. So I sang the serpent to sleep, and _he_ stole the fleece from between its massive coils, from under its poisonous fangs, without the monster even twitching.

Later, I was to hear people speak of his great bravery and daring in snatching the fleece from the guardianship of such a beast. But what is there brave or daring in taking from something you know will not wake? That is no more than simple theft, of the most amateurish kind.

Nor is sticking a sword in the neck of something that cannot fight back just because you can bravery, either.

In fact, it is downright cowardly.

Of course, that is not what people will tell you. The story goes he bravely defeated it in valiant combat. His men will all swear to that version of events, despite seeing his pettiness with their own eyes. I suppose they do not wish to have a sword stuck in the backs of their own necks while they're sleeping. It makes me sick, now, to hear the story of his courage against the snake. It used to make me laugh, feel special that I was the woman walking next to the man everyone else was telling the stories about.

I've learned since then that a nice story does not mean a nice person. It's common sense to tell nice stories about a man with a sword.

So we fled with the fleece, but by now my father had received word of my absence and _his_ flight, and men were sent after us in the swiftest ship in the fleet to bring back the fleece.

And so came my greatest betrayal. For when _he_ saw the ship coming after us, he turned to me and begged me to do something, anything to stop them. I'd been so helpful until now, he said. So clever and crafty, he said. I'd saved his life, and his men's lives, and won them the fleece when otherwise they would not have succeeded, surely I would not desert them now, he said. And kissed me. Called me "my love" and kissed me again and then looked at me and simply said "Please?"

What could I do? In the face of that, what else could I do?

So as my father's ship came alongside us, and the men called for our surrender, in cold blood I killed their captain. My mind reached out, and I stoped his heart, and he had time only for one final, surprised look at me before his eyes clouded over and he tumbled into the water forever. I killed him.

In full knowledge that he was my dearest brother.

And his men became silent. They started at me for a good long while before the first mate, now the captain, ordered them to turn back. So they headed for home to report their failure and my treachery while _his _men cheered around me, and congratulated both him and me, and sang victory songs as they rowed for home. And he just stood there, looking at me with a faint smile on his face as I watched the spot where I had seen my brother for the final time, my tears forming but not falling.

Yes, I should have noticed something then, when he said nothing, did nothing, to comfort me; just stood and watched with that smile on his face. I suppose I did feel the first faint stirring of doubt, but I ignored and squashed it.

It was far too late to turn back.


End file.
